Job

Virginity. A word long forgotten by fifteen.

She had been dating him for two months, a big boy like construction, like hauling and loading. Blonde, blonde peaching his skin; he glowed like the Christ child. He had a wide, plush mouth and dimples rarely seen. His green eyes were dull, cynical.

Her personal choice was to seperate sex and relationships and he had begrudgingly accepted. But she knew you could only push a guy so far before you had to give him something. First and second bases were handshakes. To be honest, she liked sex, nameless and faceless that it was.

Yeah, it was just a blowjob and she had done much more, but it was stepping into that uncontrollable sexual current. Unlike those nameless faces though, this would be different—she would let him fuck her face for a chance at control. She would memorize the rhythmic seizure of his hips and the crude, rough driving into her throat, draining salt into her stomach like a sewage pipe. His astringent contribution would be churned and battled, crushed and scorched in her belly.

And so it came about this way. They were kissing, petting at his house, in his room, on his bed. He had that adolescent bedroom. The one that fought Mommy’s lovingly painted Pooh Bear mural with rock idols, nudie pin-ups, and black light posters. He had Sharpie-penned devil horns on Eeyore and a mustache and tits on Piglet.

His bed was pushed into the corner; deep blues, green man-blankets smelled piney and unclean. His stereo filled the wall across from his bed, extensive electronics with towers of CDs, multiple tape decks, tiers and trays, speakers stacked like Legos. He had spray-painted grandmother’s dowry dresser stripes of metallic black, patchy and uneven. There were three panels of mirrors bolted above his bed, a fourteenth birthday present from Daddy.

Congratulations on becoming a man, son.

Beer cans. Everywhere. Empty and not. He had a recliner and mini-fridge tucked into the corner beside the door, beside the window, underneath the laminated Lord’s Prayer his mother had hung.

The whole effect was dizzying. If you pulled the mattress from the wall, you could see the splotches of yellowed dream that sprayed erratically in his sleep—that had cemented smooth to the Hundred Acre Woods; adolescence defying infancy, cumming hard and angry in its face.

Congratulations, son.

The lights were on, tracks of bulbs above her head. His face was flushed, bright stains on gaunt cheeks. He chewed on her lips, shoving both her hands lower in his pants. They tug-of-warred over the destination. He groaned and growled, besieged her with dirty looks, finally sitting up and shifting his weight to her thighs. Crossing thick arms over his belly, he scowled down at her. She checked the clock, her nails, her hair in the mirror above.

How long did she think she could get away with petting? She turned her head from him as he slid off her, digging not-so-innocent knees into her ribs. He was angry, disgusted even. She knew it was unfair. Once, twice, he started to say something to her, but just turned back around.

She followed him to his chair.

Running a hesitant hand over his thigh, she knelt before him, fidgeted with his fly, head dropping from one side to the other in thought. She unbuttoned his khakis, soft and molded to his body. His hands chaffed the arms of the recliner, fingers twitching with promise.

She took her time sliding a hand into his open shorts. He grabbed the back of her head with a possessive palm and folded her face too close to his body. His free fingers wrapped the bottom of his cock and set it against her cheek, rubbing smooth skin, veins throbbing along her jaw.

His hand on her head stroked her darkdark brown hair. His thumb enveloped her cheek and plunged at her closed mouth, punching open apprehensive lips. His thighs had begun twitching, bouncing. He wasn’t looking at her, his eyes were closed and his jaw was tight. He was hard, straight, achingly straight. The open window beside them breathed warm Saturday night air on her neck. Despite the circumstances, she was looking forward to taming him, mastering him. He dragged his dick across her face and she let him in, wedging it down her throat. She looked up at him, mouth full but hungry.

His eyes wouldn’t open and she knew he wasn’t going to allow her image into his excitement. She began to panic but he tapped her cheek encouragingly. She wanted to hear that he loved her, liked her right now. She leaned in kissing, sucking violently, enticing certain power. She could read the prayer beside his head.

Our father, whom art in heaven…

His lap was jerking, was slamming against the corduroy of the seat. She ground her tongue against his cock…

Hallowed be thy name.

Her oil well throat was slick and deep.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

He slipped his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back; her lips were ripped off him. He was looking at himself, wet and haloed, glowing. He grabbed himself and pointed at her face. She couldn’t move.

He came; his warm soapy film ran from her cheek to her neck. He took it—it was hers. She stared at him; her chin was dripping. She wanted to cry, but he ran his dick against her jaw line, told her to lick him clean, pressed her head back to his thighs.

She did cry then, but he didn’t notice because he was supervising her tongue, hand wrapped in her sticky hair.

On earth as it is in heaven…

For You, For What I've Done

I am a fucked-up girl and I did a fucked-up thing. I wish I could hurt enough to take your hurt away. I wanted to be better than people have been in your past. I am sorry that I couldn't be. I am so sorry.

I love you and always will.

To You and Yours

Tis the season, then! Time for my annual Christmas update, bloggies. (As of this year, actually.)

My cat is peeing on all my stuff. I hate him. I know, I know. He could have a feline UTI or something, whatever. B keeps pulling the sympathy card for him, though why? I have no idea. He's a bastard. He's doing it on purpose. I was sick as a dog this week. He got his furry ass up on my goddamn bed and pissed on my blankets...while we were still in them. I'm digging a kitty-sized hole.

I hate sleeping bags. That's a story for another time. Perhaps the Veteran's Day letter...

What the fuck is with nothing being on on television? It's like, I'm watching some gaddamn weird-ass shows since my options are the contemptous, yet light-hearted, "Jack" and the psuedo-edgy, made for thirty-somethings, "Shit." I have seen that Grinch movie like a hundred times. And now--and now--they're running bullshit marathons...the "Naughty Movie" Marathon? I thought this sounded good. Guess what? No. Somehow some TV exec managed to find this unifying banner to unload a lot of unrelated, yet equally nauseating shit...Fast and the Furious II, Happy Gilmore, and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? I'm light-headed with loathing. These are. not. naughty movies.

You know what is a naughty movie? Porn. Stop getting my hopes up, USA! I see more naughty on the 7PM showing of Nip/Tuck.

Anything else I been thinking? Oh! I have been coughing so much from that damn illness (next time, I'm being innoculated...grumble, grumble...coughing up blood shortly...fucking savage ingrate children), that I feel like I've done a thousand crunches. I'll be the one in the iron lung with abs of steel!!

Taking a plane on Saturday. Can't wait for that. Did you know if you blow a tire on take off, your plane catches fire and you have to unload all your gas in the ocean before returning to the runway with your chest palpitations? But there are television screens...get this...in the back of the seats!! I can watch the Naughty Movie marathon as I plummet to certain death! Hoo-rah!

Happy Fucking Holidays.

It's late again.

RIGHT HERE (Staind)

Staind is one of my favorite bands, has been for the last three albums. I love them live, but you can never touch Aaron. He's in his own little world. I have always been one of those girls that digs vocals, bands that feature the lyrics, the singer.

"But you always find a way to keep me right here waiting,
You always find the words to say to keep me right here waiting.
And if you chose to walk away I'd still be right here waiting,
Searching for the things to say to keep you right here waiting."

I like this song as a lullaby. Goodnight to one.

Night, night everyone.

1:26 AM

I'm playing.

I'm up and playing.

Nothing bad. Nothing willful or devious or disobedient, really. I am inside the lines...but only just. I know where I can tiptoe, where I can play, where I can wait with my fingers inching, itching, wicked-close to misbehavior.

Depriving only leads to depravity. And depravity can be so, so good.

I'm playing. Still.

How wet is wet?

When you get back, I will have showered and rubbed my naked body down with delicious soaps and creams, and be waiting in my bed, hands everywhere but my cunt, thinking about how much I want you to climb on top of me and slide your dick into my pussy and let me cum.

You can have whatever you want, you can do whatever you want. Your name is on my lips, like your dick will be.

Mm, I got wet just reading that back. I am still crazy from before. Got so close so many times and then...sigh. I'm going to make sure I'm really clean in the shower. Wicked grin. Lots of attention to every part of me. Slow circles of soapy attention.

Weak-knees and trembles, dropping to my knees on the shower floor, legs spread and water rushing down my back, mouth open with silent moans and sighs.

My fingers weaving in and out of my pussy, slipping along my ass, bubbles, up to my wet tits, suds, scratching over my skin, rubbing my loofah across my nipples, lathering myself hard, harder, water pouring down my ass, over my pussy, my hair curtained around my face, silky and smelling like soap.

Back up, head back, water down my front, over my tits and belly, streaming down my arms, fingers, rushing past my swollen clit, unable to rinse my wetness away as melt down my thighs...one touch, one breath and I’m done.

Have a good dinner then, kitten. Wink.

The Birth of Muchpookchchuk

You've always wondered how JB and I met, right? Here's the story (Warning: excessively ridiculous and self-congratulatory blather.):

“I escaped from the orphanage one cold, dreary night. It was an underground tunnel in the pantry. I was looking for gruel when I found it. It was just me…just me and Snuffles the bear, who I subsequently had to take out….”

“He talked too much?”

“He did. I really had to debate it though…didn’t want to do it. In the end, I knew he would sell me into child slavery without batting an eye.”

“Yep. You beat him to death with your gruel bowl. Ironic since he’d given it to you for your second birthday…which you spent in the hole with him.”

“No, no…you don’t know anything. I slit his furry throat with my sharpened toothbrush. It’s okay though, there weren’t any bristles left anyway. The gruel bowl? That’s how I killed Jimmy, the crippled orphan kid.”

“Ah, the poor bastard could scream though.”

“Yeah, people felt sorry for him and so he did better with the whole begging racket. He was fucking with the pity curve, Mister!”

“I know. Upping the bar.”

“I had to eat!”

“And you did. Jimmy.”

“Yeah. I beat him to death, but it cracked my bowl…I was always losing gruel after that. So, I had to eat him.”

“Those pins in his legs were a problem, I’ll bet…but they made great toothpicks.”

“Yeah, cause my toothbrush was all messed up.”

“Mm hm.”

“Anyway, I took to the tunnel, clambering through in my fingerless gloves—”

“Two layers of sacking cause it was cold that night.”

“Uh huh. I made it out and at the end of the tunnel was this little chap called…uh, Whisker Charlie.”

“A woodland friend, huh?”

“No, he was a tramp.”

“That’s what I meant. They’re called that cause they’re hairy and shit in the woods.”

“Oh, then. Yeah. He offered me tuppence for somethings that I can’t repeat. I did them, but cried the whole time. Grin…I fell into a life of necessary crime.”

“Yep…stealing meat and lettuce…but never together.”

“And then you found me that day I was about to kill you in your sleep for your shoes…. Changed my life, Mister. Single pitiful tear on my coal-streaked face.”

“You needed my shoes to beat that child who had shoes your own size.”

“No, I was going to live in one of yours. I had heard with the non-STD warts, it was the only way to go.”

“But I shaved your head and called you Phillipe the monkey, got you to a back street vet, had you spayed.”

“Yeah, that was awkward, but I had lice anyway, so it all worked out. Then I learned to speak Bulgarian and we went on the road as Simone and the Cabbage.”

“After the dry-humping incident in Venice, we had to change our act and go underground with the sewer people.”

“We were paid in Kobe beef and squid ink, which we subsequently sold on the black market for some Columbian snow. It was wicked times, Mister…but after our facial reconstruction and going off paper, we have been free to live the lives we have now, eking out an existence in high style.”

“Now we live in Terrene, in relative obscurity, me a wealthy, high-class hooker…and you, my Inuit lover, Flanmuckaknot, who I call my darling Muchpookchchuk.”

“You are too good to me, Mister. That day will forever be the birth of Muchpookchchuk….”

“The warts are still there, but the memories, they fade.”

“Yeah, well…I like to think of the warts as a little reminder of our love.”

“Umm, a weeping reminder.”

“Yes, weeping, sweating, oozing…love.”

Viva La Revoluccion!

...and so the spankos of the world take up our flag of righteousness, carrying ever onward and up(turned)ward...baring our delightfully willing backsides for the cause! We gathered this night, under the the banner of sexual freedom, to reclaim our kink for those who cannot speak--the silenced, squirming in their seats, rock hard or slits a-tingle...eyes glazed over with animal lust, greed, sin, salvation. We fight for them, my friends! We fight for the gooey, cooing wriggles of soundly smacked bottoms, for the hip-grinding, whimpering pleas of the properly chastised! Viva! Viva la revoluccion!!

* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid squirms rather suggestively, grinding deliberately into Joshua....and his not-so-little-buddy....
* lacey looks..
* naughty_jana-P whistles low....
* DJ throws a gross of logs on the fire for fyn
* lacey whispers "I think lil buddy is growing"
* lia_bility puts a quarter into the slot on Joshua's chair
* MDDCSir sits down and pours a Martini
* Joshua whispers ... 'you're evil'... into her ear
* lia_bility turns the chair massager on HIGH
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid laughingly leaps off Joshua's lap....and invitingly pouts at him, eyes twinkling....
* Joshua takes poey's wrist..
* carolinacutie sits down next to MDDC and takes a sip.....
* lacey pulls lia back and sits her down by me
* Joshua grins.. and arranges her over my knee
* lia_bility grins and huggggggggggggss lacey
* Joshua smoothes her pleated skirt over her bottom...
* naughty_jana-P nudges Pandora...ohhhh....action....we have action! Bare! We want squirming, wiggling...moaning....bare
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid laughs, deliciously....feeling Joshua's grasp around her...tingling....
* ray watches the spankin
* Pandora grins and nudges naughty_jana-P back
* lacey hugssssssssssss lia and whispers watch I bet schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid is gonna get it good
* Joshua laughs a bit too... giving poey's bottom a few crisp smacks..
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid tosses her ponytailed tresses back, saucily at Joshua
Joshua: I like the ponytail thing by the way....

* Joshua tugs poey's panties up snug... baring her cheeks slightly...
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid struggles, half wanting this spanking, half dreading the sting.....
* Joshua holds her waist firmly...
lia_bility: poey is gettin spanked for um, i forget; is it for sayin Joshua looks good in a dress, poe?
* naughty_jana-P starts a proper spanko campaign for bare bottomed spanking...BARE! BARE! BARE!
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid feels the snugged panties tighten and she moansssssssss.....
* Joshua tilts her forward again... and snaps the ruler down crisply across her bottom..

schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid: NOOOOOOOOOOOoooo...OK OK OK OK...I KNOW I KNOW these are ADULT games I'm playing...I was kidding...I"M SORRYYYYYYYyyyyyyy

* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid feels the blood rushing to her head....
* Joshua stands and hugggggggs miss poey closely for a long moment
* Joshua rubbing and patting her back
BD: your head poe or his?
*BD lafffffssssssssssssssssssss
*lia_bility looks at BD
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid leans into Joshua, breathing heavily....and leans over, kissing his cheek, oh so chastely....whispering..."thank you Sir, I needed that...."
* schoolgirlpoe-wearing-plaid winks at BD

And so I say to you, my breathren...do not sell short this kink of ours. Do not forget in the peals and wails of a vicious spanking is too the chest heaving, panty-soaking, pants-tightening draw of sexual fulfillment...wicked grins on tear-stained cheeks...a need, a deeply-felt sexual need for punishment and release. A release most intimate, a release most kind from a firm, adoring palm. Viva blossom! Viva bubbles! Viva!!!

Nothing, After All

There's something I want. It's making me itchy; my skin doesn't fit. It's making me do stupid things like push. But pushing has always worked for me. I am good at alone. I am good at alone even when I am not alone. I don't want to be someone else problem.

That's not true. Not if I am really honest. I do want to be someone else problem, but I don't want to be seen that way. I want someone that lasts. I want my Superman.

I know why I feel this way. I put something really secret out into the world yesterday. My past. My fiercely guarded past that is filled with insecurity, shame, loneliness, stupidity, flaws. No judgement, but I was on edge. I was looking for those trigger words, those seemingly innocent questions. There were some. Not many, but a few. I'm not naked yet. I don't know if I ever will be, but the want is there. I want to be naked.

What do they say? Trust is a two-way street? Maybe I just made that up. Maybe it wasn't trust...lust? Disgust? Whatever. Trust has been hard. I don't trust myself. I don't trust that there is a Superman. I don't trust that I deserve one.

I feel broken. I feel lost. I am torn between this insane need to please and this feeling that no matter what happens, I will be let down. I have learned to go numb, to shut down all hope, all desire in order to prevent disappointment. Feeling nothing and expecting nothing. It's a half-existence, but it seemed safe. It's not safe; it's predictable. But the prediction is bleak.

And now, when I get closer to hoping, I am terrified. I am scared to be alive. I am scared to be anything but frozen. I can't go through the disappointment again--the blanket, hot and damp on my shoulders. If I was a girl who cried, now would be the time for tears. Furious and frantic into the unknown, the wind whipping me closer to that vortex of chance. I can't even breathe but slip, slip down.

But what's at the bottom? Please...let it be him.

I Won't

I thought of something that I can do. Something nice. But I am in a wicked mood. A pushing mood. I can feel it.

He doesn't know yet. He doesn't know how I intend not to follow this nice thing through. You see, he knows that I am intelligent. He knows that I will have done whatever I have done with forethought. But I am in a disobedient mood.

He thinks that he has all the control. Yes, I know that he does...but I can live without rewards for a few days, a week or so. I will behave when I want them back.

For now, though.

Here it is. The only thing that I won't be able to handle is the disappointment. He will be fucked off at me and disappointed; he will assume that I don't want to be a good girl, that I don't want to please him. I do. I do want to please him.

But.

There's this other little part of me that asks, "What if?"

What if I don't do it? What if I say no? When I want my priviledges back, how easily will I get them? How much do I get to make the rules, to play the game? If everything that I do is so transparent, how much will he see? How much will he put up with? Before punishment? Before he gives up entirely? Before he writes me off as the bad girl? How much is it worth his time?

The good girl, he loves...would he have the same patience with the bad girl?

She's hiding now, but not well. He says, "You will."

She whispers in my ear, "You won't. Why does he get to say you will, lola? Why does he get to create all the rules? You're a smart girl...maybe smarter than he thinks. You could have him wrapped around your finger. Do you want that?"

I don't want that. But if I think I can, I just might take it anyway. I want the easiest. I want the best. I don't want to work for it; I want him to give it to me.

It's all I can hear now: "I won't."

Hi Mickey.

Stop playing with my face, you bad boy. I'm onto you.

Welcome to my secret little world.
Don't forget to leave me messages.

Little Girl: Shut Your Face

Okay, so there was this incident in IRC today. I used to go hang out at this chat server sometimes. It’s run by a friend of mine that I hold in very high regard; she set up this venue where people could get together, create a community, and discuss their kink…like adults. I never would have gotten any farther than daydreaming hopelessly and the occasional short story if it weren’t for this place. I love it…wait, loved it.

When JB and I started talking, I stopped going to IRC. This was in part because we wanted to be alone to format our relationship, but moreover, there was getting to be this problem with the type of chatters that were showing up in droves.

There are lots of spanking servers. Most of them cater to the D/s type of play. This particular one wanted a forum for all types of kinkos—D/s, spankos, Tops/bottoms, age players and families, domestic discipline—the entire gamut. Without getting too specific, the age players were offered an opportunity to build as many rooms as they pleased, but the main room was reserved for D/s and adult type-chatting.

You see, even among the kinkos, there is hierarchy. It’s flexible though, mind you…each of us separating ourselves, thinking our kink is the best, the least bizarre: “I’m not into DD—those people are weird fundamentalist loony tunes who think that Bush should be king, the NRA should enforce all school policy, and women should remain silent and pregnant at all times.” or “I’m not into D/s—those people are weird masochistic psychos that want to burn themselves with wax and drink each other’s blood.” or “I’m not into A/P—those people are weird pedophiles that get off on spanking wet diapers and spoon feeding adults who are only allowed to speak monosyllabically.”

We’re all weird. And that’s what should unite us. There’s nothing wrong with weird. But, when it comes to sharing a space, it becomes necessary not too overlap excessively. I can’t get my spanko-sex rocks off, coyly enticing a Dominant into playing with a little suggestive lap dancing or straddling, lascivious licking or innuendo, when there is this going on:

lia kicks her patent leather shoes and li'l white socks in the air.
sharona pushes lola over to make room for lia.
lia searches for and finds sharona, and they hug each other and jump up and down and squeal.
sharona points the bubble machine at the bar.

lia: oooooooooooo! CANDY!!!!
sharona: CANDYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY WHEREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?

MDDCSir tosses candy canes around the room.

And I’ll tell you exactly what I said (sans all their gripey bullshit):

Well, there you have it, sharona...no candy for you. No popsicles, no lollis... No pigtails, no diapers, no playdates... No binkies, no nappies... It seems that this is not the place to get what you're looking for. People here play adult games with adults. You want some baby fun? Want to play candy and ponies and little white socks? Go to one of the thousands of age play rooms. I don't play those things. I deserve one space that isn't filled with screaming infants. So, pack up your little diaper bag with your sippie cups and your blankies and piss right off.

Was I mean? Yeah, sure. Was I a bitch? Maybe. Was everything I said 100% true…you bet your fine ass it was! I want IRC back. I want adults and sex and deliciously wicked spankings all over the place—like the fucking Roman forum (she says with stars in her eyes)…I want to watch someone get their face slapped in public. I want to watch a bad girl smacked red and raw…and tears and apologies and peeks at their naughty bits. I’m a fucking adult. I want to know that there are other people out there that can say: A good, hard belt spanking makes my cunt spoiled wet, makes me want to fuck until I pass out. I want to say it and not hear this:

lia: But lola, you seem to only want to come in here and use it for the lolalane show, and sorry, but don’t see why sharona can’t do what SHE wants TOO?
sharona: Well, so far my experience has been that people have been respectful of each other and have been inclusive. I thought your kind of activity belonged in PM rather than as a floor show. (Referring to my highly suggestive, but not even nearly gratuitous, display while teasing J into playing my games.)

I’m fucking steamed. Yeah, I had fucking authority and I shouldn’t have run my mouth, but we all knew I was a sketch choice for operator after the Dark incident and the carolinacutie fiasco. What can I say? I never wanted to be prom queen. It’s true what J said: There goes your Miss Congeniality vote. But I am glad he was there…and that he’ll be Opping again. I wanted to take them all on, but I couldn’t. Next time though, babies…yall are getting kicked the fuck out and I am slamming the door on your asses.

Cheers! I feel better.

Attention Bloggies!!

Okay, my little bloggies. If there was ever a time that I need the support of my tiny blog community--it's now.

I have to come up with something nice to do for JB. If I don't, something terrible will happen. I can't buy him anything and I can't send him e-cards (already asked...I'm so lazy about these sorts of things). I need suggestions...if you're a chickie, what have you done in these situations? If you're a fella, what would you like done for you? Anything. Help!

I've got nothing. I'm totally fucked. I was explicitly instructed to do something yesterday. Needless to say, I didn't do it. I tried to do it...okay, not very hard, but an effort was made. Logistically, anyhow. When I explained this to him, he was angry. I hate disappointing him. He's giving me one last chance to come up with something nice or there will be punishment. I don't want that.

Help, help, help!

There's no justice.

I'm being tortured and it's so undeserved! I can't fight back or it will be worse. What's a submissive to do? Grrr.

I hate inequality! Hate it. And for the record, I'm not cheeky. Totally undeserved.

Common People

I went to school with them--high school and university. I teach their children, so I teach them. I wasn't the lowest rung, but I wasn't the highest either. And now, when I'm scraping out a living, a shitty one at that, I shake my head in disgust. Teachers make dick. And I make less than most teachers, since I'm young. And so I think to myself, Shatner said it best (Yeah, I know it was a Pulp song first, but it's SHATNER!):

"You'll never live like common people!
You'll never do whatever common people do!
You'll never fail like common people!
You'll never watch your life slide out of view,
and dance, and drink, and screw!
Because there's nothing else to do!"

P.S. Shatner's a big-ass toker? Niiice. So that's why he thinks spoken word is a good plan. Something else you didn't know? A direct quote from the man, himself: "How do I stay so healthy and boyishly handsome? It's simple. I drink the blood of young runaways."

You Will Because I Say You Will

Don't touch.

Touch, but only your lips.
Your clit, but once.


Hands off. Now.
Tell me what you want.
Loud.

Your fingers in your pussy, but slow.


What do you say?
Louder.

In. Out. In. Out. InOut. InOut.

Thank me.




Hands off. Now.
Talk. How wet are you?


Cunt.
Don't touch your clit.

Don't.

Behave yourself. Control yourself or you won't cum.

You want to cum?
Beg.
Beg me or you won't cum.


Fingers in your pussy.
Get closer. Don't cum.
If you cum, you will be punished.
Do you understand?



Answer me.


Do you understand, cunt?


No.

I said no. You won't cum until I allow it.
Stop touching yourself, cunt.


You will be a good girl. Do you understand?

You will be obedient. Do you understand?

Stroke your clit.


How wet are you now?



Cum for me. Cum, now.
Cum now, cunt.


Good girl. Good girl.
What do you say?

Good girl.

Chuck Norris Watches

Brandon Bird
Arete, 2005

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you.
If you can't see Chuck Norris,
you may be only seconds away from death.

So, there's some more things you didn't know about Chuck Norris. For example:

• A blind man once stepped on Chuck Norris' shoe. Chuck replied, "Don't you know who I am? I'm Chuck Norris!" The mere mention of his name cured this man blindness. Sadly, the first, last, and only thing this man ever saw, was a fatal roundhouse delivered by Chuck Norris.
• In 1959 Stephen Hawking became the first and only person to outsmart Chuck Norris. He learned his lesson.
• The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.
• Chuck Norris once ate three 72 oz. steaks in one hour. He spent the first 45 minutes having sex with his waitress.
• Chuck Norris doesn't read books. He stares them down until he gets the information he wants.

This made me piss myself. Want more? I'm sure you do. Go here.

And for more killer art work from Brandon Bird, like this? Don't be afraid to go here.

Too Much Information?

Does anyone else think that you shouldn't really be able to learn everything from an encyclopedia? What happened to the good old days of experimentation and oral tradition (so to speak)? Slumber parties and locker rooms held the secrets of the ages...and several tragic misconceptions.

Illustration: Click here to be shocked!

Now, normally, I am a proponent of educating the vanilla masses about most things kinkophiliac, but really? CBT? Really? There's an article on this? I'm just saying is all...

While we're at it though...is this really the best possible illustration of the buttocks in related Wikipedia article, Buttocks? What is that tattoo? And the thong over the other tattoo and...jeeeez.

I'm fucking flummoxed.

You Won't Like It

I expect it to happen. Consequences. Punishment. For disoedience. Pain. Humiliation. For pleasure. His, more than my own. But I can't deny that I crave it; my cunt betrays me.

He says it quietly, "All the way, little one." I force myself to ignore my brain; I'm not allowed my own thoughts, my own decisions. Gritting my teeth, pouting. Frowning. But I will behave because there is no alternative.

Obedient, I.

His newest set of behavior modifiers is particularly humiliating for me; but after recent punishment, I've decided that it's best not to argue about these things. If I fight him, he becomes rigidly adamant on following through, and since I am not at all looking forward to spending time in the corner, I should just shut my big-fat mouth except to say, "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

Fuck it, Dude, let's go bowling.

Sabbath got me thinking. Thinking about this. Which lead me thinking about this:

The Dude: Fuckin' Quintana... that creep can roll, man.
Walter Sobchak: Yeah, but he's a pervert, Dude.
The Dude: Yeah.
Walter Sobchak: No, he's a sex offender. With a record. He served 6 months in Chino for exposing himself to an eight year old.
The Dude: Oh!
Walter Sobchak: When he moved to Hollywood he had to go door to door to tell everyone he was a pederast.
Donny: What's a... pederast, Walter?
Walter Sobchak: Shut the fuck up, Donny.

---

Jesus Quintana: You ready to be fucked, man? I see you rolled your way into the semis. Dios mio, man. Liam and me, we're gonna fuck you up.
The Dude: Yeah, well, you know, that's just, like, your opinion, man.
Jesus Quintana: Let me tell you something, pendejo. You pull any of your crazy shit with us, you flash a piece out on the lanes, I'll take it away from you, stick it up your ass and pull the fucking trigger 'til it goes "click."
The Dude: Jesus.
Jesus Quintana: You said it, man. Nobody fucks with the Jesus.
Walter Sobchak: Eight-year-olds, Dude.

Which in turn, led me to thinking about The Big Lebowski in general. A must-fucking-see. You are insane to pass this one up. Great cast (Bridges [The Dude], Goodman [Walter]...Buscemi [Donny] is GOD), excellent directors (Cohen brothers are always a good time...well, except Ladykillers), and epic hilarity. The following are some good moments:


Walter Sobchak: I told those fucks down at the league office a thousand times that I don't roll on Shabbas!
Donny: What's Shabbas?
Walter Sobchak: Saturday, Donny, is Shabbas, the Jewish day of rest. That means that I don't work, I don't get in a car, I don't ride in a car, I don't pick up the phone, I don't turn on the oven, and I sure as shit [shouts] don't fucking roll! Shomer Shabbas!

The Dude: Walter, what is the point? Look, we all know who is at fault here, what the fuck are you talking about?
Walter Sobchak: Huh? No, what the fuck are you... I'm not... We're talking about unchecked aggression here, dude.
Donny: What the fuck is he talking about?
The Dude: My rug.
Walter Sobchak: Forget it, Donny, you're out of your element!
The Dude: Walter, the chinaman who peed on my rug, I can't go give him a bill, so what the fuck are you talking about?
Walter Sobchak: What the fuck are you talking about? The chinaman is not the issue here, dude. I'm talking about drawing a line in the sand, dude. Across this line, you DO NOT... Also, dude, chinaman is not the preferred nomenclature. Asian-American, please.
The Dude: Jeez, Walter, I'm not talking about the guys who built the fucking railroad here.

Donny: Are these the Nazis, Walter?
Walter Sobchak: No, Donny, these men are nihilists. There's nothing to be afraid of.

Walter Sobchak: Those rich fucks! This whole fucking thing... I did not watch my buddies die face down in the muck so that this fucking strumpet...
The Dude: I don't see any connection to Vietnam, Walter.
Walter Sobchak: Well, there isn't a literal connection, Dude.
The Dude: Walter, face it, there isn't any connection.

[at the funeral parlor]
Walter Sobchak: GOD DAMN IT! Look, just because we're bereaved, that doesn't make us saps!

The Dude: Look, just stay away from my fucking lady friend.
Da Fino: Hey, I'm not messing with your special lady.
The Dude: She's not my special lady, she's my fucking lady friend. I'm just helping her conceive.

"That rug really tied the room together."

The Insanity Ends Here

I know I try hard not to talk about my family. Well, I don't really "try" so much as avoid the fact that they exist all together when I'm here in my closet of shame. Heh heh. But, I think that the following must be said: My mother is insane.

In. Sane.

I don't say this lightly and I don't mean that clinical type. That kind is manageable because everyone knows those people are crazy. Simple solution.

No, no. It's the latent lunacy that only rears its pyschopathic head when they family is around. She's a professional, you know; high-powered, well-respected. The kind that freaks your boyfriends out waaay more than any gun-toting rottweiler of a father could ever hope to achieve. And she wonders why I never brought anyone home.

But, I am prepared to substantiate my claims with an honest-to-God list of things she does, and has done for years, in secret:

• Loud noises ruin her day. If you drop anything around her, she shrieks and jumps, her body wracked with shudders and she has to soothe herself for a minimum of twenty minutes.
• She's obsessed with humorous hats and buys them with wreckless abandon. It's just not right.
  
• Her language is never appropriate to the situation. She can never be “mad,” she’s “appalled.”
• Serving pie makes her feel entitled. If you get a slice from her, it comes with the announcement: “I’m done serving people for today. That’s it.”
• She has no ability to carry just one purse. She wants others to believe that all her shit can be managed with this one tiny purse, but secretly stores a medium purse and a diaper bag in the car so if she absolutely has to, she can move the next size up. And her purse has all this shit hanging off of it…mirrors, cell phone packs. Her purse has purses.
• She acts like all of my brother’s actions are extreme. His friends are “those hoodlums (said ‘hoodle-ums’)” and if he brings home a six-pack, he’s a “binge drinker.”
• She schedules our vacations so intensely that people who join us have to be vigilantly watched for signs of dehydration. She passes out water constantly reminding us in harsh tones that she doesn’t want anybody “getting weird” at the Liberace museum, or the Denver Mint, or whatever we’re being dragged to.
• She sneaks into my room while I’m visiting and pets my face while I’m trying to sleep. It sounds sweet, but really…try sleeping through someone tracing your nose and dragging your hair across your mouth. Insanity.
• She cleans our stairs and kitchen floors on her hands and knees with a handi-wipe, a pan of hot dishwater, and a butter knife.
• Movie theatres. OMG. She wears earplugs because the music is too loud. She keeps six coats and pairs of extra-thick socks in her minivan and layers them on (with multiple hoods draw-stringed to tightness so that only her nose peeps out) like an Eskimo before we can go in. Literally, we have to get there fifteen minutes early to accommodate this…she even stole my socks off my feet during Sea Biscuit. She claims she “needs” her glasses at the movie theatre, but doesn’t notice if they’re missing a lens, and will not believe me until I poke a finger through the frame. She won’t buy two drinks and insists on indicating whose straw is whose by height—a height that disappears after three sips—and then she is “appalled” if I use her straw by mistake and takes the lid off for the rest of the movie.
• She gets hurt doing even the simplest of tasks. For example, she pulled her neck muscle so badly that she couldn’t drive for a week…get this…turning off the alarm clock.
• She has these stretches she has to do to sort out this glute injury she sustained over thirty years ago doing football stretches with her students. They’re these deep bends, lunges, and lying-on-the-floor-with-one-leg-in-the-air things…not so bad, except that she insists on doing them in anonymous, but very public places like the airport, the mall, and the parking lot of any truckstop.
• She only eats stale Peeps.
• She needs written step-by-step instructions taped next to everything in her house, from her DVD player to her wardrobe.
• She has a heightened sense of smell. She knows if you burnt toast in the house three days before while she was on vacation (and yet more “obvious” smells, she’s oblivious to…me thinks she needs a point of reference…grin).
• For years she believed that electrical boxes on the side of the freeway were a refrigerator and washing machine and couldn’t understand why no one wanted them.
• Everything she owns is at least thirty years old and comes with a story. “I won that turkey pan in 1973 when we were moving to Ireland for your father’s residency….” The worst part? She expects to be passing these things onto me. Thanks, Mom, but I don’t want your turquoise rocking armchairs.
  
• She can’t cook, so her meals at home consist of something over spaghetti noodles…and not necessarily conventional things like tomato sauce or pesto…chili, tuna, and peas are personal favorites. She fears the grocery store. Fears. I've never seen someone who hoards Campbells' Cream of Mushroom Soup like she does.
  

Maybe I'm blowing things out of proportion, but when your mother has to be handled like a prize poodle, all skittish and neurotic-like, there just something ain't right. Grimace.

But, you have to love her, right?

I mean, it's like a legal obligation or something...is your mother like this?

Eat me.

E-Mud Wrestling Pt. 4

Part 4: Lola's email to M regarding J's intentions

M,

A and I have been having disagreements (I'm so diplomatic) about the whole J thing since...well, since I have found out about it. I, for one, am entirely sick of it. I am enclosing a portion of a letter I just recieved from her (date) so that you can see where this is going (feel free to skip this portion if you read Pt. 3):

Okay, first of all, not that it's any of your business, but J and I decided that we both really care about each other (as friends) and were planning on keeping a friendship. (And just for the record, J was NOT one of my "many one night stands." He said he was "fascinated" with me (yeah, fascinated being the operative word...think monkey in a cage) etc etc, (he said everything I wanted to hear ) so he came over. We had what seemed like a nice time...lots of hugs, and sweetness, and then when I returned his message the next day, he talked to me and then out of the blue , he hung up on me?

So, yeah I was persistent. I was trying to figure out what the fuck was going on--if he was mad at me etc etc . But, in NO WAY was I "stalking" him, and the fact that YOU come to me and tell me all this shit about how J says I'm "stalking" him makes me feel like we've regressed back to grade school It's fucking ridiculous and I wish J was just some stranger that I met off the internet rahter than being part of your gossipy cirlce. It's disgusting.

Okay, it's me again. You have told me that J doesn't want a relationship with her, that he says she's stalking him. Is that or isn't that true? Because I tell her and try to get her to back off a little and then he turns around and says that they're friends.

What the fuck is going on?!? I am trying to keep her from looking like a lunatic but J is really not helping. Please tell me if he wants to be friends with her. If that's the case, I'll just stop talking to her about it. But if he tells her that they're going to be friends and then changes his mind again, I am going to be really upset. I don't love A, but this is really hurting her. Tell him to call her and tell her how he feels and then never, ever change his mind again. This is really cruel (there...done and done).

Thanks,
Lola